


Lost Tales

by Finfangillian



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Cold Weather, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely terrible weather, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Psychological Torture, Red Court!Morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finfangillian/pseuds/Finfangillian
Summary: Just a place to dump oneshots, mostly about random AUs I have for various characters in the Dresden Files.
Relationships: Implied Donald Morgan/Paulo Ortega
Kudos: 1





	1. Hunger Pains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For one of my Red Court!Morgan aus
> 
> Implied Donald Morgan x Paulo Ortega
> 
> Torture (mostly referenced. Psychological and physical)  
> Emotional and psychological mainpulation  
> Food deprivation

Morgan’s vision was hazy and horribly unfocused, and somewhere in his body there was a dull pain that simply refused to go away. He could not tell just where it was coming from, perhaps he had just gotten that good at ignoring pain over the years. It all just… Blended together nowadays. 

He was unsure exactly how long he had been there, as well. But he knew it must have been upwards of a couple months. Maybe even three or four. He could not be sure, he couldn’t even see the sun. The room was nearly pitch black all the time, there was no way for him to tell how many days it had been. Perhaps, even if he had a window to look out of, he would not have been able to keep track of the days. He probably would have lost count at some point. 

Like when they bit him. The few days, he estimates, after that were spent in an incoherent haze. 

And now he was so _fucking hungry_ . It was a kind of deep, painful, desperate hunger that was a torture by itself. He hadn’t felt like this since the Great War. Since the trenches. But this wasn’t exactly the same kind of gut wrenching starvation he felt in the trenches. No… This was much more vicious. He was violently ravenous, and it hurt so fucking much. He was so goddamn _hungry_ he couldn’t think straight - Though the other pains might have been contributing to that as well. 

He was so tired, so hungry, so desperate, that it was almost a relief when the Duke came to him. 

Ortega had first shown his face in Morgan’s cell - well, dungeon, perhaps a week or two before. Morgan couldn’t be totally sure how long it had been. Exactly how long he’d been sitting in the dark, by himself. 

For a moment, when the door first opened, Morgan wondered if they were finally going to kill him. He held his breath, waiting for the blow to come, waiting for the sweet release from his pain, but it did not come. 

“Open your eyes,” Duke Ortega cooed softly, ever so gently caressing Morgan’s cheek. Soft skin against his own scarred, dry skin felt nice. Felt comforting… And despite who that hand was attached to, after being bound and beaten and hurt and starved both for food and contact for better than two months, receiving not a single pleasant touch, a single kind word… He was disgusted by how much he craved that feeling being given by the very bastard who supervised his torment. 

Somewhere within him he knew what the vampires were trying to do to him. He knew that they were trying to make him dependant on the Duke, make him _trust_ the Duke. They were trying to make him love one of their own, covet him so much that he would want to serve them, if for no other reason than to please Ortega. They wanted to control him, they wanted to make him their puppet. 

He was scared it was going to work. And every soft touch of the Duke’s hands, every quiet whisper against his ear made his heart hammer in his chest. Both with fear and with a deep and visceral _need._ In that moment, he would have given anything to just keep that accursed vampire right there beside him. Just for the company, just for the contact. 

Thanks to the haze over his vision, it was very difficult to see Ortega, he could really only see the basic dark outline of the figure beside him. The man’s soft hair, the gentle curves of his muscles… If his arms were not restrained he would have hugged the vampire. Of course, he was disgusted with himself for even thinking that, for wanting the very creature who was orchestrating his pain to stay close.

He was furious that he felt so lonely, so empty after the Duke left, and he was once again alone in the dark room. 

The next time Ortega returned, and for a great many visits after that, he was kind and gentle and warm with the imprisoned Warden.

It was a great many more months of constant pain, interrupted only by short and ever so sweet visits from the Duke, before he finally broke. 

He had been trapped, subdued and tortured for so long. 

Deprived of food, of sleep. 

Beaten, bitten, and bruised. 

It was bitter-sweet when he finally gave in. 

He sank his teeth into the poor man’s neck. Immediately he felt a wave of relief, the hunger finally fading as he succumbed to months and months of torture. The poor fool idly draped an arm around Morgan’s shoulders. 

The Warden was too broken to be disgusted with himself, especially through the relief and satisfaction of feeding. Though the pain of the transformation itself, he felt, was entirely deserved for the atrocity he had just committed. Though once it was over, and he had become one of the monsters he used to fight, there were very few things on his mind. 

Primarily the desire to please Ortega, who stood over him as he dropped the figure once he’d satisfied his hunger. The Duke looked down at him with a smile meant to convey joy, pride, and kindness, and offered him a hand. The chains and thorn manacles that had bound him fell away from his wrists, and he took the vampire’s hand without a moment’s hesitation. 

During his time in his cell he had often thought about the fact that everyone has a breaking point. 

Everyone. 

Even him.

And he had often wondered when the Reds would finally push him to his. When they would finally break him down. When his walls would fall away and he would submit himself to their will. 

That was truly the only thing that he feared. He was not afraid of death, and even if he was, clearly the Reds wanted him alive. They wanted him to serve them, they wanted to be able to hold him up and wave him in the faces of the Council as a big _“fuck you”_. They did not want to kill him, they wanted to turn him into a trophy. 

Forcing him to comply with them, let alone to willingly serve them, would be a symbol of their _persuasive_ abilities to a great many more people than just the White Council. They would be able to flaunt him to anyone that so much as glanced their way as a way to say _“If we can make him bend the knee, we can make you bend the knee too.”_

Now that they had succeeded, he did not think about that anymore. 

Now that they had turned him from a Warden, a man of respect and fear, into nothing more than a shiny prize, he did not worry about being forced to serve them. 

As a matter of fact, he quite liked serving them. Nothing made him happier now than praise from the Duke for a job well done. The Red Court said _“jump”_ , and Donald Morgan would say _“how high”_. 

If he was in his right mind, he certainly would have been disgusted. He would have been furious, he would have sworn on his power to destroy the Red Court by any means necessary. He would have gone on a crusade against them for what they did to him. 

But he was not in his right mind anymore.

Morgan had said for years that he lived to serve, decades even, nearly a whole century. And that had not changed. His life was still dedicated to service, to his loyalties, to those he was sworn to protect. 

The subject of his loyalties was the only thing that had changed. The Red Court, and more specifically, Duke Ortega. The manipulation tactics that the vampires had employed paid off, the former Warden was as eager to please Ortega as he could possibly be. And in return, the Duke took care of him. Watched out for him. Kept him from doing anything foolish, anything he would surely regret. 

The Vampire surrendered himself to the will of his Court, and he would continue to serve. 


	2. The DuMorne Pass Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin DuMorne's harrowing experience in what we now know as Dyatlov Pass. It's called 'Dead Mountain' for a reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking place in 1917, while Morgan is away during the first World War. 
> 
> This one is a little bit on the spooky side, based off the Dyatlov Pass Incident in 1959, which you can read more about here if you would like. Fair warning, it is a very strange and disturbing case. If such things unsettle you, you may wanna skip this one.  
> https://allthatsinteresting.com/dyatlov-pass-incident

The wind howled past him at ungodly speeds. It cut right through the layers he wore, chilling him to the bone. This was much worse than he expected it to be, quite frankly. When they had sent him off on this gods forsaken mission, they said it would be simple. Said it would be no trouble at all. As routine as they come.

That was, of course, utter bullshit. 

He had been promised that this would take no longer than a couple hours, that he was just going to look around and make sure that nothing strange was afoot. He was told that it was nothing substantial, and the report was more than likely false. 

He was sent by himself, too. Which he had protested. Because why on earth could they not spare even just one more Warden to go with him? He knew for a fact that not all the Wardens were wrapped up in the ongoing war, he knew there were even ones with plenty of free time stationed with him at Archangel. It was foolish to send him alone. He knew it, Grace knew it, if Simon or Donald had been there they would have fought against it as well. Hell, Donald would have gone with him.

What he would have given to just not be alone out there. What he would have given to have anyone with him. 

This place was dark, his vision was obscured by the snow, he could hear nothing but the screaming wind which drowned out even his own footsteps in snow that came up to his knees. 

He never should have gone on this damned mission. He should have insisted it was a bad idea, been more firm, been more persistent. Maybe then at least they would have given him backup. 

As he pushed on through the bitter cold, the temperature seemed to drop even more. The world around him became nothing but dark, horrible shadows from trees that bent in the vicious wind, and grey snow drifts that seemed to _leer_ at him as he went by. But that was truly ridiculous, because snow drifts are not animate. They cannot leer for they do not have faces. But gods, he would swear that they were staring at him. He would swear that they were angry he was there, disturbing the otherwise barren and uninhabited landscapes. 

He had a sense that he was intruding, and he thought to himself that there was truly not meant to be any life here. This place was not fit for the living, and it felt as unkind and unwelcoming as much of the Nevernever. He knew he was not wanted here, and the further he went, the more gut wrenching that feeling became.

Justin was not a particularly paranoid man, unlike a great many of his fellow Wardens. He was skeptical for a wizard, he did not often allow his nerves to get the better of him. But out here… 

It was horrific out here, and the only thing he had any proper control over was his mind. But even that was beginning to fall victim to the terrible wind and biting cold. He felt panic and fear rising up within him, felt true and bone deep terror trying to take over, trying to cloud his judgment. But he had a job to do, and he intended to do it. He did his best to push his surely irrational worries down, bury them beneath reason and assurances from the other wizards that this was more than likely a false report. This was probably nothing. 

That became difficult to do though, because the longer he spent out there - How long was he even there for? This was meant to be a short mission… - the more he felt like there were truly a thousand hidden eyes boring into him. The more he felt like there was something else out there with him. Something following him, perhaps? Something that inhabited this place. 

He thought, a couple of times, that he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving in an irregular way. A shadow that was thin and wispy and sharp all at once that surely could not belong to a tree. What kind of tree makes such a disgustingly pointed shadow? What kind of tree seems to have… Backwards knees? Long, thin, willowy hair? What kind of tree moved like _that?_

Surely it was just his imagination… So many of his colleagues had practically sworn to him that this was nothing. They had never had a report from this area, ever before, so how could it possibly be something, right? If there really was some horrible beast out here, they would know about it! Simon would have discovered it decades ago. 

...Right? 

Or could it be that they had never received reports of this area before because there was simply no life out here to send one? 

His instincts screamed at him to turn tail and run. This place was dangerous, it was so truly _not right_ and he needed to get out. Damn his mission, he had been out here, freezing for gods know how long. He couldn’t even see his watch to look. It was so dark, so cold, his muscles hurt because of how violently he shivered. His jaw and teeth ached. His eyes were only open a sliver and he could barely even get them that far. 

He stopped his trudging through snow that had reached midway up his thighs, and had to lean heavily on his staff to even stay upright. The wind would at least be at his back as he made his descent. 

His escape, really. This gods forsaken mountain had turned into something very like a prison, and he could not wait to put it behind him. 

Justin struggled to stay steady as he tried to retrace his steps back down the accursed slope, but the weather was unkind, and had filled up a great deal of his tracks already. It was extremely difficult to see the remaining small indents in the snow, where he had stepped what felt like hours before. 

Even with the wind at his back, he still struggled to walk, to keep his eyes open, even just to keep his thoughts in order. It was not an easy task, given how terrified he was. Horrific, irregular, bony shadows slipped past him, though he never even saw their source. The only real evidence of its presence were the disgusting shapes and the terror that kept mounting within him. He was more sure now than ever that he was not alone, and whatever was out here, whatever was watching him with a thousand invisible eyes meant him harm.

He did not know how long he was wandering in the direction he hoped was out, still unable to look at his watch. But finally he heard something other than the screeching of the wind. 

It was no more comforting than the wind, though. 

Sharp, distinct, painfully slow and steady footsteps approached him from behind. They cut through the howl of the wind like a hot knife through butter and each one felt like it made Justin’s heartbeat a little bit slower. 

That struck him as strange… He was so afraid, shouldn’t the adrenaline make his heart beat faster…?

His muscles felt extraordinarily sluggish all of a sudden as an unprecedented wave of fatigue crashed into him. His knees became unsteady, his hands shook. He didn’t even notice when his staff felt out of his hand, and he barely registered when his legs finally gave out and he fell to his knees, the snow reaching halfway up his stomach. The chill wormed its way into his chest, turning his very heart to what felt like a frozen wasteland. 

He felt himself scream, but he couldn’t hear his voice. The only sound that filled his ears were the horrible, high pitched wails of the wind and the crisp footsteps behind him. They drew closer so painfully slowly, like a predator playing with it’s food before killing it.

The shadow finally looked clear, and as his vision slowly faded to black, it was all he could see against the terrible snow. So stark a contrast now, with it’s jagged, uneven limbs, what appeared to be wispy fabric draped off of it. And it was so very tall. In his sorry state thought the thing was nearly fifteen feet tall, once it got closer to him. 

He struggled to take in any air at all, let alone enough of it. He felt like he was being suffocated by the snow itself.

“I don’t want to die here,” he croaked, his voice strained and ragged and quiet, yet somehow audible to him, despite his screams were not. 

He fell forwards further into the snow, and it took all the willpower in the world to just move his arm in a futile attempt to crawl, or drag himself away. His vision vanished rapidly, and the final thing that he saw before everything faded away to nothingness was a clawed hand so pale it was nearly translucent reach in front of his face and very gently push his eyes shut. 


End file.
